A Game of Wicked Grace
by Falconflight
Summary: The Tale of the Champion and her time in Kirkwall, told over a series of 23 short vignettes, all taking place in relation to her favorite card game- as a passing thought, a bonding activity, a coping mechanism. This is the story of Belladonna Hawke. (eventual F!Hawke/Isabela/Merrill)


A/N: Should I make a 'Nightmare Before Christmas' reference? A 'Granger Danger' reference? Which musical 'what's this?' reference should I make?!

But yeah. Posting fanfiction. Again. For the first time in 8 years. I can't believe the last thing I posted here was JohnKat (easily one of my nope-iest of NOTPs- davekat all the way y'all). I can't believe how ridiculously hard this website is to use for no reason. I can't believe the website design hasn't changed in literally 8 years...

Anyway. This is a temporary measure because the fewer people who see this old account the better, but, believe it or not, I need to publish fanfiction online for class, and I won't be getting my AO3 invite for another few weeks, so... without further adieu, I now humbly present: A Game Of Wicked Grace!

* * *

"And with a final flourish of her staff, the soon-to-be Champion of Kirkwall felled the mighty Arishok. The nobles of Kirkwall rejoiced, hailing her as their hero and their Champion, and the Qunari, honorable to the last, left, free to return to Par Vollen now that their leader had been beaten."

"But what about _her_?"

Varric Tethras barely suppressed a smirk. He had the Seeker on the edge of her seat- quite literally; she had pulled up a chair to sit in with her fingers clasped tight and her teeth digging into her lower lip. A few hours ago, that kind of question would have come from a place of contempt, a revulsion towards his friend and everything she stood for, but now. Now Varric was fairly sure Cassandra Pentaghast had developed a little crush on the Champion. Before, that question was a search for damning evidence. Now, it was a plea to hear more heroics and triumphs.

The Seeker would be sorely disappointed. "She fainted, pretty much immediately after killing the Arishok." Cassandra's eyes widened- she even stood up, mouth hanging open to protest.

"She was completely spent," Varric offered. "The duel had gone on for well over an hour, and mages don't exactly have the same kind of stamina as a warrior, especially a Qunari one. Not that it would've made much of a difference if she had stayed awake- Meredith swooped in the moment the threat was dealt with and began asserting her authority, and Champion or no, she would not have appreciated a mage challenging that authority. So we let the Knight Commander clean up the mess and brought the Champion back to her estate."

Cassandra shook her head. "But what of the Champion's authority? Did she not have power in Kirkwall rivaling Meredith's? After all she had done for the city, the people of Kirkwall had to respect her."

Now, Varric had to hide a grimace. _If anyone had any respect of her, they would've let her give that authority up, and none of us would be here._ "You're getting ahead of yourself, Seeker. We have months of acclimation to get through before she fully accepts that authority."

"Acclimation?"

"By now, surely I've convinced you that she didn't want any of the things that happened to her- that includes becoming the Champion," Varric replied. "The title took some getting used to." And she still wasn't used to it. She despised that title with every fibre of her being, and it tasted acrid on Varric's tongue, but he'd be damned if he used her name in front of them- or, Maker forbid, his nickname for her. "Of course, if that's not interesting enough for you, I can skip straight to the end; I'm sure that's the only part you care about."

She almost protested- Varric could see the word 'no' forming on her lips; she was completely and utterly invested now. "I came here to hear everything- but in a moment; I have a small bit of business to attend to."

Varric grinned. "I admire how long you held it, Seeker; I don't like interruptions."

Cassandra scowled. "It wasn't for you, dwarf," she muttered as she stalked away.

 _No. It was for her._ "Is stretching my legs out of the question?"

The Seeker responded with a grunt, which Varric decided to take for a no. The moment she was gone, he stood, stretched, and began to wander around the Hawke Estate. Escaping wasn't an option- when they brought him in, he saw guards by the front door and the passage into Darktown. There were even guards by the windows- how small did they think he was?

He probably could do it, though, if he really wanted to try. A well-timed explosion and some thick smoke; he could disappear up Sundermount, even drop down into the Deep Roads if he really had to. But he could tell he was getting to this Seeker, to the Right Hand of the Divine, and if he had the chance to set the record straight with someone like that, he had to take it. For Bella.

Varric found himself passing by the dining room. A group of guards sat around the table, helmets and gauntlets off, cards in hand. A game of Wicked Grace.

"Mind if I join you?" Varric asked, stepping into the room. The guards froze; some of them started reaching for their swords. "Don't worry; I'm allowed to be out and about- we're taking a little interrogation break." He sat down at the end beside a pale-faced lad who scooted away with no small degree of subtlety. "And I promise to go easy on you."

The woman at the head of the table- Ferelden, by the looks of it- smiled. "Deal him in."

Just as Varric got his cards (it was a terrible hand, by the way, and he wasn't going to rule out it being intentional), Cassandra came in, glaring at him. "We are not done yet; come on."

Varric sighed and set his hand back down. "Another time, then." He joined Cassandra by the door and walked with her back to the basement. "Do you play, Seeker?"

The snort suggested not- or perhaps she just wasn't very good at it. "What's it to you?"

"The Champion does," Varric offered. "Pretty damn well, too."

"Oh… you didn't mention that."

"Didn't seem relevant," Varric replied with a shrug. "You're just here to learn how the Champion started the mage rebellion, not what she does in her free time."

"I could learn that too."

"I'm gonna have to start the story over," Varric warned. "There are some details I left out for brevity's sake, but if you really want to hear everything…?"

"Yes!"

Varric lowered himself back into his chair. "So, it was a hot night three months before I met the Champion..."

* * *

Varric knocked back another beer as he watched patrons filter into the Hanged Man. It was Wicked Grace night- the highest quality entertainment in Kirkwall if you were willing to tolerate the stench of that many extra drunk bodies in the Hanged Man. Half the men in Lowtown were crowded around the series of narrow, uneven tables lined up in front of the bar, preparing to lose all their hard earned coin to a couple of Hanged Man operatives planted in the mix.

Unfortunately, Varric wasn't in the Hanged Man just to watch suckers lose money; he was meeting with someone. But where…?

Varric caught the eye of a broad-shouldered elf who gave him a pinched smile before joining him in the corner. "Saxon- pleasure to see you again." Varric offered the elf his hand over the table. He shook it as he sat down. "How is business with Athenril?"

"Business is fine," Saxon muttered, "she's been a bitch. Per usual."

"Like I've said before, you could always come partner with me and Bartrand."

"Help fund your fuckin' suicide mission into the Deep Roads?" Saxon shook his head. "I don't have that kinda coin, dwarf, and if I did, I wouldn't waste it on the Tethras', and I sure as hell wouldn't be workin' for Athenril anymore."

 _Oh, how I pity the narrow minded._ "Well, do you know anyone else in Athenril's cartel who might be interested?"

Saxon thought about it for a moment. "We've got some temporary operatives who're leavin' in a few months; they'll be desperate for new work. They're a pair of Ferelden refugees, related to fuckin' Gamlen Amell- and one of 'em's an apostate. I'm fairly sure they'll work just to keep you from turnin' her over to the Templars."

Varric managed a charming smile as he finished the rest of his beer and leaned back in his chair. "Not everyone has the moral code of a smuggler, Saxon."

"No- you have the moral code of a man with his head stuck up the Merchant Guild's ass."

Guilty as charged, however irrelevant. "So, who are these Ferelden operatives of yours?"

"One of 'em's over there."

Saxon nodded across the room at a brunette woman wearing too much red eyeshadow at the Wicked Grace table. Varric recognized her immediately as an occasional patron with a penchant for making a pretty profit off of Wicked Grace. She liked to lose the first few rounds- let them get drunk and underestimate her, and when she had lost all her coin, she'd offer up her robes. And then she'd start playing for real. The men always think it's a fluke until she's plucked every coin they're willing to lose to a woman.

"What's her name?"

"Hawke- Belladonna Hawke. Smart, witty, magic," Saxon wrinkled his nose, "only interested in other women." The wrinkling turned into a grimace as she nudged her handful of silvers across the table to a thin smirking human. "She got some extra coin for the last job, and she's about to lose all of it."

Varric smiled at that. If this Belladonna was going to profit off of others underestimating her, why shouldn't he as well? "Twenty sovereigns she loses the next hand, then wins the three after that."

Saxon blinked at him. "Maker, you must be drunker than you're lettin' on."

"Practically sober."

"Alright, I'll bite. Twenty five sovereigns says she loses every cent on her."

Three hours later, Wicked Grace was winding down, and Varric's purse was twenty five sovereigns heavier. He grinned at Saxon as he tucked his winnings away. "Thanks for that, Saxon."

Saxon scowled. "You know her; you've gotta know her."

Varric shook his head, grin widening. "Never even knew her name before tonight, and I know everyone- though I have seen this little gambit a couple times before."

Saxon's glare hardened, and he muttered something particularly foul before stalking off. Varric watched him leave, thinking he should have taken more pity on the elf, or at the very least, given him more thanks. He had, after all, given Varric the name of the perfect partner for his and Bartrand's expedition. All she needed was a little prompting in the right direction (Saxon wasn't his only contact with Athenril- one of them could drop the hint near the end of her servitude stint) and a little time to gather up the 50 sovereigns.

Varric waited until Belladonna made her way to the door before slipping past her, tucking five sovereigns into her pocket as he brushed by.

 _This should help with that._


End file.
